I love to make compost.  It’s incredibly satisfying.  I see myself as a radical alchemist turning detritus into gold and I can’t get enough of it.  Bigger and bigger my pile grows and with it my lust for more, like some out-of-control Malthusian trap which increases the population at the same time it increases the food supply.  Of course I am the anti-entropy agent enslaved to this ‘creature’, gathering the raw materials, feeding them into a living, breathing organism which has grown to such an extent it now consumes thousands of pounds of debris every year.  The rational part of me knows this is a formula for some Sisyphean labor because everything just keeps growing, and yet I willingly cut and trim, rake and shovel, pack and carry for hours so that at the end of the day my ‘pile of gold’ will be bigger than ever.  I feel truly rewarded.

I know this can’t go on forever … there’s hard work involved (dirty, too) and eventually my pile will hits it’s peak … I just hope I can keep it alive until the day I fall over dead.  If I’m lucky, I’ll land in it!